Polyamory
by Sunruner
Summary: She tastes like sin, but the one battle he knows he can always win involves the two of them in a quiet, private place with no interruptions. More selfcest for my weary heart. Italy, Fem!Italy, Nyo!Italy, how do I make the search find this? There's no plot.


**Selfcest!**

**My babies,**

**My darlings.**

**_All mine._**

* * *

**_Polyamory_**

She tastes like sin.

It's the one thing Italy is sure of every time this happens, it's the one coherent thought in his cloudy mind whenever the polyamory of nationhood overwhelms him. It's when his hands start itching and his clothes feel too tight, his temperature sky-rockets and he's left drooling like a dog for something he can't get from his normal interactions.

He loves Germany, of course he does, that's not even a question at this point. But nations have trysts and that's just a part of who and what they are. Italy doesn't have wandering eyes or a neglectful way of handling his lover, but he has needs that Germany can't satisfy sometimes, and it's okay.

He doesn't love the woman whose name is Alice, he loves the man whose name is Ludwig.

But sometimes North Italy has to remind his districts who's boss, and Sardinia, by the law of war, has every right to demand his complete and undivided attention from time to-

"_Ah!_"

-enough about Ludwig.

"God, yes..."

Alice. Only Alice tonight.

Italy resents the elevator bell when it dings over their heads, because he likes the way the mirrored wall of the floating compartment shows him how hard she's breathing- as if he can't already see and hear and feel it. Her face is pressed against the cold glass and he's right behind her, only the brass rail circling the small space keeping her body from standing flush against the surface. The metal forces her hips back against his comfortably, or uncomfortably, he's not sure. The white collar of her blouse is wilted from sweat and the fact that he pulled it down to reach the sensitive back of her neck; her caramel-brown hair struggles to stay in its up-do after his hands ravished the silk bun with all its hidden pins and ties.

His fingers are itching to hit the close door button on the panel next to them, and maybe the emergency stop one too, but he knows better. Even if there isn't a camera in the elevator, what he likes and what she likes don't match up well in this environment.

"How far...?" Her voice is heavy with lust as he forces his hand to let go of the smooth thigh he's been palming through her black slacks, his fingers slipping away from her hip where her blouse is hanging loose at one side. His clothes feel two sizes two small as he bends down and picks up the indigo blazer he tore off her back, and her hands are shaking as the edges of her shirt are tucked back in place.

"End of the hall." He shouldn't have given her a room with a view. The hotel has first-floor rooms that are cramped and close to the kitchens; if he'd given her a room there instead of up near the top floor then they'd be done with waiting and would already be-

"Carry me-" Alice doesn't take her jacket back, the elevator doors slide open with a yawn and she's on him with arm arms draped over his shoulders, hot lips on his and a sweet tongue that makes him fall back and groan when his shoulders hit the doorway. His eyes are closed when they stumble into the quiet corridor, and it's too late at night for them to make a lot of noise in the hotel. He wraps his arm tight around the small of her back before he does what she says, because carrying this woman is faster than walking with her.

They've had a busy week, and it's been building up to this since she arrived in Rome. He denied it out-right when his brother told him there was no way she was spending the night at their house, and he meant to keep denying it, but it just hasn't worked out that way.

Commune, Province, Region, North Italy can call Sardinia whatever he wants. Feliciano and Alice have so much history with one another, such a strange, complicated relationship to honour, that he's given up explaining it to his own brother. And Lovino isn't one to talk anyways: Chiara is in Rome this week too, and Feliciano knows his brother has stayed out three nights in a row without saying a word about Spain or calling Sicily by her name.

It's the polyamory of nationhood. It's the State looking at the Region and thinking _'yes, this is mine_',and it's the Region looking right back and panting:

"Without me, you'd still be Venezia," and kissing him again with those red lips.

And comments like those are why they do this, because after a week of meetings hammering out the annual budget and allowances for the Regions, North Italy doesn't want one of them dragging up irrelevant history. If that's the only thing Alice of Sardinia can say to him after two world wars and decades of economic trouble and growth, then he'd rather hear her pant and moan his name than put up with the rest of it.

She slides out of his arms and pulls him by his tie until she's pressed back against the hotel room door. And it had better be the right door, because it's not often that he's the one doing the pressing and the pinning, but he's above ravishing a woman in a semi-private space like this.

If only just.

The key-card whispers through the reader and the lip-lock breaks so they can get inside, and he knocks the door closed again with his heel as her jacket is tossed aside and he feels her hands go for his blazer and then the knot of his tie.

Usually he's the one who backs up until the bed is found. Usually he's the one shimmying his hips awkwardly over the comforter trying to remove too many layers of clothing; pants, stockings, a patterned piece of negligée. He cherishes these times with his usual lover, but reversing the roles does something to him, something he loves just as much and in a completely different way.

She smells like sex when he touches her, his shoes and socks and belt and jacket all gone as his hand slides down her bare thigh. She's blushing the way she always does, because no matter how many times they do this or under what circumstances, she always blushes for him. She always trembles and sighs when his fingers slip down and invade familiar territory, and she lets the pleasure wash over her face as she gasps softly and arches her back next to him.

It's the worst thing she can do for his pride, but Feliciano just stays over her and _watches, _because it makes all the bad things go away. No economic crisis, no rights movements, no political troubles, no environmental damage. No friends asking for money or Italy himself getting down on his knees looking for something to cover his debts. He's not the one begging anymore, and he hasn't all week because it's been him and Lovino and the Regions, and he's had all the power to make all the changes because like it or not South Italy answers to _him_, not the other way around.

So he needs this.

"Take off your shirt."

And he's going to get it the way he likes it.

"Veneziano- _don't stop._.._!_"

The way Ludwig just can't, because even when his hands tremble they aren't delicate like hers, and as much as he loves the heavy muscles and wide shoulders of his other lover, it's just not as tantalizing as the full, round breasts in front of him now as they strain for freedom behind cream-coloured silk and lace. He cherishes the other one's mind and ethics the way this one entrances him when he buries his fingers in sex up to his knuckles, reaching as far as fingers can go while she moans for him and closes her eyes.

So he strokes her in a different way until those eyes fly open with a wanton cry.

It doesn't make a difference to him if she reaches for him and starts fighting with the buttons on his shirt, he doesn't care about what he's wearing when she's like this. He just cares about the power that lets him do this the way he likes it and the way she wants it. He just cares that the only person who can say no to him right now isn't going to because she's gasping and trembling under his hand.

He resents it when she climaxes because he was hoping to drag it out as long as he could, but apparently he's out of practice and goes too far.

The bad feeling goes away as he watches her buck her hips and twist her body under him, his eyes drinking in the sight while his ears ring with the sound of her gasping his name over and over again. The blush that kisses her chest satisfies him as an apology, and he gives her a few minutes to catch her breath while her copper eyes open and close slowly, her body sinking languidly into the undisturbed bed. His hand withdraws from her sickeningly sweet flesh, and the intoxicating musk of her body is wrapped around his fingers like a silk scarf. He's immediately drawn to the idea of tasting it, but won't allow himself to look that desperate and wanting in front of her.

"Sit up." She listens because they've done this so, so many times before, and he knows her body and the way it wants almost as well as he knows his own. When they're both up and sitting next to each other, he doesn't touch her, he just looks at her body in the orange light of the single standing lamp.

"Unclasp that." He doesn't gesture, he doesn't say any more than he has to. She doesn't even give him a look for being so short with her and just stretches her arms behind her back awkwardly, fumbling for the clip keeping that last stitch of clothing on her body. "Don't pull it off, leave it like that." She drops one strap down her shoulder before he stops her, his eyes watching her slender fingers correct the mistake and place the white silk back in place.

"Let down your hair." She obeys because they don't talk about nights like these. She's not always this docile, but he's not always this firm, and it will all work out in the end. He doesn't want to think too far ahead of this moment though, and as she pulls all the stupid pins and tangled bands from her hair, the brandy-coloured tresses that mirror his in colour come down in shimmering waves. Long hair is going out of style, but he doesn't think he'll forgive her if she ever cuts hers short again. He won't do this with her if he doesn't get to see those long amber locks frame her face and fall like a curtain around her shoulders.

She cut her hair once, back in the fifties.

The fifties were a very lonely decade.

She's already caught her breath from before, reaching up now and dragging one wayward hair from her face where the light sweat on her brow made it stick. She's allowed to move, he doesn't mind it. He also knows she's watching him, waiting for him to say or do something.

"Stand?"

It's the first question he's asked her and probably one of the few suggestions he'll make. When she complies and walks by him in naked glory, turning slowly without him asking so he can see her the way he wants to, he wonders why he didn't kill Da Vinci for seeing this same sight and immortalizing it on canvas. When she's like this, Venus is for Italy's eyes only.

But it doesn't really matter, the original is better. When he reaches out a hand and drags that mis-placed piece of lingerie aside she blushes again, and his lips start burning for the soft flesh between her throat and chest.

Satisfied is the wrong word, but watching her move is something like that. He tilts his chin up when she reaches for the buttons keeping his shirt collar closed, and when he looks at her face her eyes are focused on their task. She wants what he's already enjoying, and that's fair, so he doesn't mind. He shrugs off the pale blue shirt and hears her tsk sharply when she sees the undershirt he has on beneath it. Once that's taken care of he doesn't have to tell her to come to him, his counterpart just spreads her thighs and straddles him.

Her skin is so cool against his arms and chest that he can't keep his lips away, dousing them on the smooth curves of her throat as his arms wind around her back. One hand tangles up behind her head, twisting those smooth, warm strands of her hair while the other strokes her warm, curved back, then travels down her round hips and slender waist before rising again. She whispers for more and he answers with both hands wrapping around her breasts, no games or teasing as he kneads and twists the soft, full flesh like he's never seen them before.

But he has. And like with the rest of her he knows what to do, he knows how hard to pinch and fondle the silk surrounding hard nipples, and his reward is her voice mewling out to him before her naked hips drag back and forth over his covered crotch. Dragging his tongue over one and then the other gives him the same reaction again, only stronger, and if she's going to be this vocal all night then he knows he needs to pick up the pace: he only has so much stamina when it comes to that voice and his name mixing together in the low light.

He doesn't want to tease her tonight, but he easily could. He could have her down on her knees between his legs, that copper head bobbing up and down on him until he can't take it anymore, but it's not what he wants. Tonight he doesn't want to give up control like that, to let her tease and set the pace with him. Tomorrow night, some other night, but not tonight. Instead right now he catches her mouth with his lips and he tightens his arms around her body again, crushing her flesh to him before he pitches his weight to the side.

They roll and she's on her back under him, half a breath spared so they can inch up the bed so they aren't falling off. After that he has a flushed, naked woman panting under his body as he dips his head for her throat again, nipping and sucking.

She's so soft and he just isn't used to it. When slender arms come up around his neck he feels the smooth flesh of her upper arms brush by his ear and turns his head to kiss that too. He's not used to it: that soft warm skin that gives so easily against him, that intolerable sweetness in her sweat, the way her body fools him repeatedly into thinking there's nothing there below him because it's all so rounded and pillowy.

Her strength is in the legs that hook around him and the hips that push up against him, her flexible body doing things to his mind that fry his sense of what to do, jamming protocols and scrambling his brain.

Germany is strong and solid and stiff, to kiss and make love at the same time is a trial because his spine won't allow his head and hips that far out of alignment. He's not used to a lover who can twine herself around him so completely, one who he can wrap an arm under and pull her chest up against his while his other hand skates down her side and around her hips again, grasping her thigh as the smell of sex and sin starts to hurt him where he's still bound up and covered.

His belt is sitting on the floor already, so when she groans under him it's up to Italy to try and pull their hips apart, her legs unwinding from around him as hands that were holding his back now slide and escape down. Dress pants are annoying but he feels the button and clasp open up, gasping over her parted lips as her greedy hand goes for him and takes hold through the hot cotton still restraining him. He doesn't want to give up control like this, he doesn't want her to set the pace with him, but her fingertips are still skating around his hips pushing the black fabric down, and her legs and feet push the pants away until he has to shake them off from around his knees.

"Roll over." She breathes, and he's stubborn enough to refuse.

"Take them off." He orders instead, gritting his teeth when her hand squeezes him so nicely and he gives in when he shouldn't: grunting softly before letting his chest down to rest on hers. He moves up and their lips come together again, sucking and locking as he wraps one hand carefully around her throat. He doesn't squeeze though, just holds her. "Now, or we won't."

"Liar." Probably, but neither of them wants to take that chance. She doesn't let go of him but he's watching the lust well up in her dilated eyes, her other hand taking liberties exploring around his hips and raking her nails gently down his backside, inching the cotton band down out of the way. She lets her other hand stroke him wantonly before finally he can breathe again, her teasing coming to an end as he presses his mouth over hers and there's nothing left to stop them.

Condoms? If she could get pregnant, or if their kind of sickness could move through sex, then sure. But neither of those things apply so there's no sense in fussing or fumbling for something. The hand at her throat slides down and palms her body again, his head tilted to press hers back down into the pillows as she gasps under him and her hands rub his chest and arm before sliding her fingers back down between them. He wanted to do it but now he doesn't care: he just wants in, he just wants _her._

So it's her hand that holds her body ready and guides him down, his hands travelling to hold her thighs and moving down to her hips so he controls how they push and move into one another. The smell of her is more than he can take and the wet heat that tightens and holds on around him tries to leave him breathless. He can see her, eyes closed and sweat-damp body twisting, fingers and toes tightening in the bedsheets under them as he moves slowly, trying to savour it, but with purpose because he wants it too hard to just start and stop on a whim.

He's all the way in when she starts murmuring and whispering for him to start moving. That's why he makes himself stay perfectly still where he's leaning over her, hands holding her hips down so when they try rocking beneath him she only gets a fraction of the pleasure she's looking for.

He's a good lover, he won't leave her whimpering for long and he's going to make it worth it for both of them. But the only time she begs is when she's like this with him, and he wants to savour it, he wants to watch those lusty eyes flutter open when he moves his knees back so he can plant his hands to either side of her on the bed, her legs wrapping around him with a throaty groan. It's been a year since they last touched each other, since he could last taste and smell and have her like this, so when she starts rutting again he doesn't stop her this time. He just listens to her whimpers and then kisses her cheek once, then her throat.

Then he thrusts.

She isn't a screamer, she's breathless and beautiful.

He does it again, because he wants to hear his name.

Again because he loves that sound,

Again because he loves this sight,

Again because maybe he loved her once too.

Soon he's lost count and he doesn't care about numbers anymore, all the control is in his hands right now, so much power to make her gasp and cry out as their bodies sync up quickly. It's only like this with her and he has theories about that, but he can't think of it now as she moves with and against him, her lips on his forehead and hands confused between caressing and scratching him, leaving red marks across his shoulders that sting and burn with the pure pleasure welling in his hips.

They're gasping over one another and maybe he says her name. When his thoughts shut down completely maybe he says something he doesn't mean, or something he means more than anything, or maybe he doesn't say anything at all as he sucks in air to meet his body's overwhelming physical demands. It's all grunting and rutting as he pulls back trying to make his thrusts go deeper, but she pulls him in close and tangles him in soft limbs and sweet sweat and gold hair and her body begs for faster.

He won't stop kissing her even when he's just mouthing her lips and cheeks and she turns away from him looking for air. Her cries get louder with push after pull and his legs and back are hurting from holding and moving in one position like this. He forces himself not to close his eyes because he wants to watch this, to own the moment when their fingers weave together and she looks up at him so desperately that she's _crying_.

When she peaks again it's not like before, it's powerful and full-bodied, her entire form devoted to pulling him as close as they can get and holding him there as he lets go into her, his arms tight around her back and face pressed tight against her throat. He doesn't even know they're nearly sitting up with one another until he loses his strength and they have to fall before they find the bed again.

And then it's just... breathing.

Heavy panting under the fog of sex and tangled in thick, hot sin. Their hips drag apart and their skin is damp and sticky, making sure he can feel her smooth body part from his. He can't even free one hand or run it down her shuddering body without his fingers and palms getting stuck or catching on sweaty curves and heated flesh. His ears are ringing and his throat is parched, but there's a pleasant, giddy buzz in him now that makes it impossible to fight off the smile plucking at his lips.

He's still on top of her and can feel her shallow pants slowly deepening, placing his lips against sweaty skin again just so he can feel her heart throbbing through the veins in her throat. With more effort than it should take he gets himself propped up on one arm and shifts off of her, reclining on his side with a hand holding his head up. He knows he's smiling, but he knows his reward for tonight isn't just sex.

It's watching her satisfied body roll towards him and stop when she's on her side, full thighs rubbing together as she stretches her hips and her fingers coil and flex languidly over her head, pulling on the sheets she already disturbed. The way her breasts hang and roll as she moves, the way he can still see how erect and sensitive her dark nipples are, it makes him lick his own kiss-swollen lips because if he takes her again right now, he knows how desperately he can make her cry for him. He's done it before, after-all.

And he'll do it again.

Just maybe not right now, because sex-clouded eyes behind tousled brandy locks are almost as alluring as trembling thighs and exposed breasts. He listens to her groan once as her body gives another stretch from tips to toes, and his grin can't help but grow as she crawls slowly across the bed to drape one arm around his neck and lean into him for a deep, consuming kiss.

"How long do you need...?"

She tastes like sin.

"You're waiting for me? That's sweet, Alice..."

But he's pretty sure he does too.

* * *

**I love this pairing more than I should and I don't caaaaare. Edited because Pochi is my favourite chicken who points out silly mistakes and logic breaks.**


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